Learned From The Fool
by Mr Slater
Summary: Zexion hates Demyx, the new guy in the Organization. But the longer he spends around the cheerful book-hating young man, the more he learns about himself and the world. Please review, and yes, this is fairly Demion.


"Demyx…" murmured the Cloaked Schemer, not lifting his eyes from the large, heavily book. "Please _desist_ with that infernal racket…" Demyx looked up, affronted, as his 'buddy', Zexion criticized his gentle strumming, but could not meet the dark eyes of his verbal assailant, as they were incessantly scanning the words of that book that never left his sight. Resigning his argument even before he'd begun, the mulleted musician dismissed the large blue sitar, and his pale friend breathed a sigh of relief, and settled back in the armchair.

The two cloaked boys were in a fairly poky circular room. The only lights were emanating from precariously located candles, balanced in small dishes catching the wax, on the many piles of books. The books were stacked all around the edges of the room, the numerous volumes, many in unfamiliar languages to Demyx, had grown from the fairly large bookcase, and it had simply been a necessity to remove chests of draws and other such luxuries deemed too space-consuming, and the books now laid bare on the dark wooden floorboards, the only furniture remaining being the olive green arm-chair, a bed with matching spread, and a horribly clashing blue water-bed on which the new boy, Demyx, would be sleeping.

Zexion was not going to bother to pretend to be happy about the arrangement, and had tutted and nipped at Demyx whenever the situation would permit. "I don't see why you had to stay in my room whilst yours was being constructed. Why not anybody else's?" Complained Zexion, licking his finger, and peeling a page of the leather-bound book back, still not looking at his guest. Demyx's tough soap bubble of optimism was not shattered by the sheer digs, and answered as though it were a real question.

"That grey-haired guy with the nasty scar on his face said we'd get along well." He replied, simply, as Zexion sighed, shaking his head gently, his long dark bang flopping about slightly, over his fringe. What Demyx had got wrong this time was that his answering of the question that did not want an answer relied on the misinterpretation of sarcastic Xigbar's comments taken seriously. However, the sweet kid seemed immune to any and all forms of verbal abuse, and he, Zexion, was not going to need to resort to physical techniques to tell the blond he wasn't wanted.

"Don't touch that!" Demyx, sitting with his legs splayed across the waterbed, his heavy boots lying on the floor was reaching out to touch a book, belted closed, lying on the perfectly made bed of Zexion's, aligned with the pillow. Immediately, he retracted his arm, but that goofy grin remained firmly where it was.

Behind it, however, the grin was not apparent. Demyx didn't understand: he'd only just got his head around joining this Organization IX, but now another complex issue had arose. Why was nobody round here friendly? He looked at Zexion, still reading, sitting cross-legged on the squishy dark green armchair, his perfectly polished brogues, lying beneath the four-poster bed, set perfectly together, laces tucked inside the shoes. When you looked around at the chaos of the dingy windowless room, you realized the methodical techniques by which Zexion kept his room tidy were actually effective. The cloaks hung on the back of the white painted door, and candles were arranged on every other book stack, all of which were perfectly arranged according to alphabetical order, and pushed right to the edge of the room. The bed had some books lying even in the space left by the circular wall against the straight mattress, and the armchair was set perfectly in the centre, so that Zexion faced the door (behind his book), and that the bed was immediately to his right. On the back of the chair hung a few small rails knocked together fairly unprofessionally, which hung a few sets of clothes.

The only thing out of place in the room was he, Demyx, his makeshift bed consuming what little living space there was, his robe and too-large already scuffed boots left on the little floor visible, himself sitting, misfitting, upon the blue tacky plastic, his clothes all ill-fitting and crumpled, and his extra sets screwed up in a large military-designed rucksack, hanging awkwardly on the small peg by Zexion's robe.

Time dragged on, as time does, when there is nothing to do, and eventually, he yawned, stretching his arms. Only now did Zexion look up at him, prying over the top of the pages to check that he wasn't breaking anything. He had to keep looking, as the younger boy reached over to the bed again, to pull a folded sheetless quilt onto his own sleeping base. With no bother for privacy, he quickly stripped to underwear (sky blue with clouds) as the Cloaked Schemer opened his eyes increasingly in disbelief. The black dress shirt was dropped on the floor, and soon after, the belt unbuckled, and the trousers (which most definitely needed it: they'd been hanging off his skeletal physique) dropped to the ground. The odd socks were instantly slipped off, and, slipping beneath the sheets, he settled, his grin of cheeriness mutating into that of bliss, as the water swirled around the inflatable bed, and the plastic scrunched, as the pale mulleted figure descended upon it.

"'night, Zexy," he murmured. But was fast asleep before his playmate could growl

"Zexion."


End file.
